Three Times
by SJlikeslists
Summary: Mr. Parker may not have won any awards for "Father of the Year," but that doesn't mean he didn't try.


Three Times Mr. Parker Chose to Act Like Parker's Dad (Even If It Didn't Seem Like It at the Time)

Yeah, that's a monstrously long title, but it seemed appropriate.

Disclaimer: The Pretender is not mine.

Why does this story exist? It exists because cold and uncaring is far too simple an explanation for a character from a series that thrived on complexity and layers.

_Newborn_

The profusion of dark-brown fuzz that covers the top of her tiny head is intriguing to me in a way that I never knew something could be. It is unsettling to be feeling these things I am feeling. I do not usually include feelings in my thinking.

This is different. This is strange. I could stare at this little doll like creature in my arms and gently brush my fingers over that head covering of hers for hours. I would like to do so. I would enjoy it.

I don't act on the impulse. I cannot. It would seem silly and sentimental to do such a thing, and I know that there are eyes everywhere in this place. They are always watching. They are always looking for weaknesses. Any unusual behavior on my part will be deemed a weakness. Weaknesses exist to be exploited, to be leveraged, to be destroyed to gain compliance. She will not be my weakness.

I hand her back to her mother with a vague, somewhat gruff sound from the back of my throat that serves as a response to the question that Catherine has asked me. It's the best answer I can give as I haven't the least idea what it was that Catherine has said.

I was otherwise . . . enthralled? I nearly chuckle at the word being applied to myself. (I don't, of course, because that would display a lack of self-control. I always have self-control. It's part of who I am.)

The only reason I know that there was a question hanging unanswered between us was the expectant expression upon the woman's face. That is characteristic of Catherine. She displays no self-control. She never has.

Catherine is hopelessly obvious in her emotions. She won't or can't learn. She knows this place and what it is. She simply chooses not to see it. She chooses not to see many things. She calls it being positive and open-minded. I call it walking the edge of insane. You can't ignore reality. That leaves you unprepared to face the possibilities.

It's ironic, really, that I've always chided Catherine for that. It's hypocritical, perhaps, as I am about to embark on my own illusion strung path of failing to face reality.

I will not think about the fact that the children came early. They tell me twins often do.

I will not think about the fact that Catherine went into labor during the one week of a three month spread in either direction that I was away from home. Some people say that coincidences happen.

I will not think about the fact that children were supposed to be difficult to come by for the two of us. I will think that time and patience pay off in the end (or I will concur with Catherine that miracles occur).

I will not dwell on the fact that the child we do not have is the boy. I will console Catherine with the fact that we still have one – one we never really expected to have. I will not ponder the fact that those working on project Red File posit that this gene we are chasing will only manifest itself in males.

I will not add the probabilities of those thoughts together. I will not draw conclusions based on those probabilities.

I will not ask questions. I will not be thorough. I will not wonder. I will play Catherine's game, and I will see only what it is that I want to see.

What I want to see is her. I want to see this little girl with her bright, watching eyes with which I am inexplicably enamored.

I will not show that I am so. I will not make her into a target. I will not allow them to see that their machinations have given them something to hold over my head. I will not challenge the story they have told me of the boy. I will not meddle. I will not interfere. I will swallow my insinuations. I will hold my tongue. I will let them have this round.

It would do him no good. They cover their tracks far too well.

It would do me no good. I know what becomes of those challengers, question askers, and meddlers who have nothing to offer in trade for the privilege.

It would do her no good. Whether I show it or not, they will suspect that she has become a playing piece in this game. They will wonder. They will prod. I will let them do so without any retaliation.

Her mother will make it obvious (for that is the way that her mother behaves, no matter the persons she injures in the process).

I will do the protecting. I will leave them to wonder (and never confirm) just how much I might be willing to give up for her safety. She, I think, will be worth the effort.

This desire to protect this little piece of humanity that cannot even give voice to what she is thinking is strange. It is even more so considering it is barely fifteen minutes since I have entered the room.

I am used to strange. This is, after all, The Centre. Strange is the currency in which we transact our lives.

_Accident Averted_

I can only stare in shock at my little dark haired girl. Her insistence has saved me a nasty injury or far worse.

She knew. The repetition of those two words are tumbling around my brain through an otherwise muddled thought process. It's the only thought that is clear. She knew. She knew. She knew.

I know my mask has slipped. I know I am betraying my surprise. I know that my thoughts are, for once, blatantly visible for anyone to see. Just this once, it doesn't matter. There is no one here to see. There is only my little girl and Catherine.

Catherine is looking at me with an expression that can only be described as pleading. She says nothing.

She has fallen into a trap of her own making. Her innate unwillingness to see what she doesn't want to see won't let her say anything. She's hoping that I don't realize what this means. She's afraid that if she speaks she will confirm what I just saw.

I don't think I have ever despised anyone as much as I despise the woman I call my wife in this moment. I have been annoyed at her weakness and her pretending. I have hated her never ending projects and continuous putting of our family into the spotlight. I have been angry at her inability to comprehend how much safer it is to be invisible.

I have never hated her. We have muddled along rather well together over the years all in all. In this moment, however, I want to smack her upside the head and knock her foolish, pretending ways out of her.

She's still silent.

I despise that silence. She's choosing pretending that it will all go away over an active defense of our daughter. How can she (obvious, this child is the sunlight and center of my universe, would anyone else like to know that you can get to me by making her a target Catherine) put anything above defending our daughter?

This display of emotion that I am allowing will never do. I take a deep breath and school my features. I even manage to not narrow my eyes as the thought occurs to me. Catherine doesn't look surprised. She looks scared, somewhat panicked, and as though she is considering running and looking for a place to hide. She doesn't look surprised. She isn't surprised. There was no reason for her to be. She knew.

The words have reasserted themselves in my brain with a different she as their focus. She knew about our little girl. She knew, and she never made a defensive plan. She never thought through a strategy (how very, very typically Catherine). She was banking our little girl's well-being, her future on chance.

She did, however, manage to hide it for who knows how long of a time. A measure of the respect that I have for my wife returns to me. She's been protecting her as well.

I'm pleased at this similarity in our thought processes. I'm also disappointed, of course, because Catherine should know by now how horrid she is at protecting anyone or keeping anything a secret.

I cannot grudge the fact that she did not trust me. I want to do so, but I cannot. I understand the decision all to well to grudge it. I know how perilous trust is. I know our daughter is too precious to be trusted to trust.

We will have to make new decisions now. We will have to be proactive. The best place for hiding is in plain site. It is much simpler to bring her along to work with us than to arrange for outside care. There will be nothing suspicious in that. We will only be limiting the intrusion of outsiders into our affairs. The Centre frowns upon anything that brings continued contact with outsiders. We will be being model employees.

There are plenty of places for a child to be at The Centre. There are plenty of places for a child to be seen at The Centre. There are plenty of opportunities for a perfectly normal child whose parents are hiding nothing about her to be seen by those who are interested in seeing if she is at The Centre.

Why, after all, would anyone who was hiding anything put the thing they were hiding right in front of the camera lens of those from whom they were hiding? Yes, proactive is always the best plan of action. He should have thought of it before.

Catherine should have thought of it before (but, of course, Catherine doesn't think that way). That was all right. He would do the thinking for the both of them.

They were on the same side. There was something comforting about that. It was too often that they were not.

He swung their dark-haired daughter up into his arms and smiled in Catherine's direction.

"That was lucky," he stressed the word. "Let's get some ice cream, my Angel."

Catherine looked unsure for a moment before she smiled back at him.

This felt nice – this unitedness. It felt, he supposed, like family.

_Moving Forward_

It was ironic really. Catherine had always been the one to blather on about not "burdening her with death."

It had been Catherine really who hadn't wanted pets.

"What will we tell her if they die?" She had worried.

It had been laid at Daddy's door. He thought pets were too much trouble they had told her. Catherine always needed someone to cover for her.

It had been Catherine who decreed that they not mention her brother. She hadn't wanted her to feel guilty. He couldn't imagine what had put that into Catherine's head, but he didn't fight her. His little girl was a thinker. It would be best if she didn't grow up asking questions.

So, now, here they were. His little girl had her first brush with death – Catherine's death.

How many times had he told her not to ask questions? How many times had he told her she couldn't continue to betray what she was thinking the way that she did? He had warned her. Why couldn't she have put their daughter first?

Suicide? That was the best that they could do? With all of the resources at their disposal?

Suicide? Catherine? With their daughter there?

He may not have known his wife as well as he should have, but surely he knew her better than that. He had thought they were united on the protection of their Angel. Perhaps, they hadn't been as united as he had thought.

Why did she have to meddle with other things? Why couldn't she have kept her focus? Now he had to do it all alone. He was solely responsible for the care and safety of their little girl – two little girls really.

He could take care of Faith. He owed that to Catherine's memory. He had agreed to be responsible for Faith. They had thought, for a time, that she was curable. His baby would have been so pleased to have a sister. She had always wanted a sibling. He wondered, at times, if she knew that she was missing one.

Faith would have made his baby happy. That wasn't to be. She wasn't cured. She wasn't going to be cured. He was grateful this time for Catherine's reluctance to expose their daughter to death. She had insisted they not tell her until Faith was better. Faith wasn't going to be better. She had little time left. He could make her comfortable. He could see that she wasn't alone. He could handle his responsibility to Faith. It would be over soon.

His Angel was different. That care wasn't going to end. He had to provide for her future. He had to ensure that she had a future. He had to do it alone. He wouldn't have even Catherine's cursory aide.

Catherine.

He was so frustrated with her he could scream. He might have if they weren't watching. They were always watching. They would always be watching his Angel. They must not see anything. They must not see what they had seen in Catherine. They must not see her emotions. They must not see her thoughts. They must not see her asking questions.

His little girl would not be Catherine. She would not have her weaknesses. She would not share her fate.

He would make sure of it. He would protect her from everything. He would protect her from herself. He would protect her from her mother's memory. He would do it. He would do it whatever it took. He would do it even if he had to break his little girl in order to do it. He would do what had to be done.

She was all that mattered.

The weight of it all hit him, and he lowered his head to his hands and cried. The cameras could see. The cameras always could see. They were watching. They would see him break down. This time he didn't care.


End file.
